


Guns Blazing

by wrendomfacts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, M/M, Stripper!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrendomfacts/pseuds/wrendomfacts
Summary: The bartender looks up at him, and for a second, Dean can almost swear that he sees a trace  of sugar-sweet, gumdrop lust behind her clear blue eyes. But then it's gone."Thanks for the drink," He mutters, and stands, back slouched. She watches his retreating form."Who was that?" The waitress sidles up next to her."Just Atlas." The door swings open, and the man staggers through it, leaning on the frame for a minute. "Carrying the weight of the world."





	

Dean fingers the glass, staring at the rim. There's nothing in it now except ice cubes, and they rattle as Dean tips it. 

"Another one?" Blonde, blue eyes, big rack. She leans over the counter, and Dean tries for a smile. His face can't even lift to one. The bartender's gaze goes from lollipop-hard candy-butterscotch lust to one of sharp confusion and pity. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Thanks," He mutters, and she dips her head in a way that says no problem. 

"So," She glances back at him as she pulls the bottle of amber liquid, half full, from the top shelf, holding it about a foot above Dean's glass of ice cubes, and tilts it so that whiskey sloshes out and hits the ice. Dean watches lazily. She tops it off, smiles at him, and puts the bottle back, wiping her hands on the towel in her apron pocket. The low-cut, tight red shirt would normally interest Dean, but not today. _Probably not ever again_. Her sparkling gold, name tag necklace says _Stacy_ in that shitty, cursive, I-blow-like-nobody's-business font. "You an Icarus or an Atlas?"She pushes the glass across the wood, and it catches on scars that steak knives and fingernails have left behind. Dean looks up at her through his lashes, both arms folded on the counter. 

 

"What?"

"Seriously? You've never gotten that before?" He shakes his head. A laugh. "Cause you've got the-" Fingers wave around his face and he squints at them. Her right hand makes its way back to the towel at her waist, wringing it again. "Look." She finishes, and leans forwards as well, meeting Dean's eyes. His forehead creases. "You know, the whole I-carry-the-weight-of-the-world-and-I've-flown-too-close-to-the-sun look?" Understanding passes across his face and she, _Stacy_ , smiles. "So which is it?"

"Which is it?" His voice is bitter. "Sweetheart, you wouldn't even know where to begin with me."

"Try me." Eyebrows raise. A smile. "I'm like a captive shirk." She leans back, arms spread. "Hit me with your best shot." Dean's eyes fall to his glass again, empty for the sixth or seventh time that night, thinking about it for a second, chewing on his bottom lip. He can feel her stare burning into the top of his head, but tries to ignore it. 

 

"Atlas."

"Ah. Don't meet many of them. Usually they're Icarus'." When he doesn't respond, she pulls herself back into his line of sight, bending down so he gets a clear view into her tits. His dick doesn't even so much as twitch. "You wanna talk about it?"

 

Dean rubs a hand through the back of his hair, raking it up and into the longer front, tugging. He can feel tears threatening, but if there's one thing he's still certain of, it's that Dean Winchester doesn't fucking cry. He shoots her a painful, half-smile, knowing that his eyes are wet nonetheless. "Oh, baby." Stacy leans across the counter. By now, some of the other patrons are staring. After all, it is a Friday night.  _Saturday morning_ , Dean thinks, glancing at the clock on the wall. _1:54_. He stands abruptly, and drops a twenty on the bar. Stacy looks up at him, and for a second, Dean can almost swear that he sees a trace of sugar-sweet, gumdrop lust behind her clear blue eyes. But then it's gone.

"Thanks for the drink," He mutters. She watches his retreating form, bowlegged and swaying.

 

"Who was that?" One of the waitresses sidles up next to her. Stacy, Dean had been right about her name, turns her head ever so slightly, and catches the other girl checking him out. She sighs.

"Just Atlas." The door swings open, and the man staggers through it, leaning on the frame for a minute. "Carrying the weight of the world." 

******************************

****************

*******************************

The road dips as though it's water, and Dean tries his damnedest to put one foot in front of the other. Tears blur his vision even more, teetering steps faltering for a minute as he leans against a stranger's car, white Mercedes, 2015.

"Hey dick! Get your fucking muffs off my ride!" Dean turns too quickly, off balance, but even through his spinning gaze, he can see three big guys silhouetted in the dying light from the bar's closing doors.

"Sorry, man." He slurs, and backs away, hands up. Dean shoots a lopsided smirk at the group of boys, and turns, staggering towards where he thinks he parked Baby. Behind him, laughter echos as the teens, _underage drinking, and so obvious too_ , slap each other's backs. Dean wants to punch them. Somewhere, deep down in his whiskey-dulled mind, he knows that the fact that he didn't immediately engage shows signs of depression and getting rusty, but fuck that, because there's no way in hell he's going to have a goddamn breakdown now. 

 

Baby's at the far end of the lot, a decision he'd made when sober and is regretting now that he's smashed. Dean bumps into a few more luxury sedans, sets off one car alarm, but eventually, he makes it to the back corner of the bar's unlit parking lot. He stubs his fingers on his keys, fishes them out of his pants pocket, sluggish, and then proceeds to drop them on the ground. "Mother-" Knees hit pavement. Pebbles rip denim. Drunk fingertips scrabble, unseeing, until they touch something cold. Dean stands with what he thinks are his keys wrapped around his middle finger, but- "What in God's name- oh, Jesus. Why." Nope. It's a condom. A used condom. He sighs, flicks it off his hand, and drops again. This time, his keys do find their way into his palm, then into his car door, then into the ignition. "Finally."

*********************************

*************

*********************************

Dean ends up on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, he probably pulled over because he knew he was too drunk to drive, but his consciousness is telling him otherwise. His consciousness is telling him that it's because he'd turned to the side, midway through sitting through a red light, smiled, and said 'Sammy, you know we work better together, right? We're stronger together' and no one had answered. It's telling him that, in a panic, he'd turned right and had just kept going. It's telling him that a flask of some sort of burning liquid has been distracting him from noticing that he's been crying for the past half an hour. But Dean is telling himself that he's fine, he's _fine_ , because he _has_ to be fine. 

 

A shaking hand comes off the steering wheel to rest on the door handle, the other one gripping metal, and he brings it up to his mouth, the fiery feeling of vodka now dull on numbed lips. Sharp intakes of gasping breaths break the silence in the stuffy car. _Too stuffy_. It smells like gunpowder and cologne and _Sam_ , and before Dean knows what he's doing, the door is open, and he's staggering out of Baby, flask hitting the dirt. Alcohol sloshes out of it, dying the ground a darker shade of gray.

 

Dean slams his hand against the side of the car, and clenches his teeth in a pained barrier against a yell. His thoughts briefly flash back to the bartender. Her offer to listen. _She woulda been an easy lay, man. What the hell is wrong with you? You shoulda taken it_. "I woulda taken it." 

 

But what would he have said? That he was depressed? Suicidal? Begging Chuck for an accident to be written in to his _godforsaken_ story so that some good could come from all this _fucking_ pain? That he has been going through about eleven bottles of Jack Daniel's and three bottles of Smirnoff in a week, for the past month? That the decaying body of his little brother is laying on the floor of the bunker, a bullet through his sternum? 

 

And what would her response have been? 'That sucks'? 'I understand'?  _Yeah, I don't think so_. 

 

"Come on, Castiel!" His words are slurring together even more now. _Hey, I think I'm actually a little drunk_. "I know you've got your ears on, you sonofabitch! Come on down here and give me one good reason not to kick your sorry ass!" Nothing."Come on!" His voice breaks, and he staggers away from the car, tripping over his own feet and hitting the ground. A root sticking up from it stabs through a hole in his jeans, impaling itself in his knee. Dean doesn't notice. "Come on." Dean's voice drops to a muffled plea instead of the anguished yell. "Come on, Castiel. I need you, man." His cheek presses against the dirt as a tear rolls across the bridge of his nose. "I need you." Eyes close.

*******************************

**********************

******************************

Holy fucking _shit_ , his head hurts. Every time he tries to open his eyes, it's like tiny jackhammers are trying to drill into his brain. He knows he's home, the mattress in a motel never feels like memory foam, but he doesn't remember driving that far, but then he's pulled back under, into some sort of half-awake, dream state. He's in his room, and there's someone on the edge of his bed, a fuzzy black shape, and it takes him a blurry, pain filled moment to realize that he's no longer in a dream. "What the-" Words still slurred. _How much did I drink last night?_

"Hello, Dean." 

 

Any response he would've had dies on his lips. Dean scrabbles with his hands, fisting them into the sheets in a panic, and crab walks himself backwards until he hits the headboard, completely awake.

"No, no you can't be here. I'm dreaming. You're dead."

"Aha. I wish." 

 

And that's when Dean's fist connects with his nose.

 

But instead of the usual, knuckle breaking force field that is Cas, Dean hears a crack, and Cas topples backwards, off the edge of Dean's bed.

"Holy shit," He pulls his hand back to himself, flexing it. No broken fingers, no cuts. Nothing. It's like hitting a-

"Ow." Cas' voice is nasal, pained, and when his face peeks over the side of the mattress, blood is streaming from both nostrils. Dean doesn't know what to do except stare. 

"Are- are y-"

"Human? Yeah. How? No freaking clue." 

 

"Well I'll be a son of a whore." He sits back on his haunches, feet bunched underneath himself, and he presses the tips of his fingers into the bridge of his nose. His eyes close.

"What's wrong, Dean?" 

"What's _wrong_?" Bitter laugh. "Where do I start?" The bed dips.

 

"No."

"No what?" Dean feels he warmth of Cas' hand hover near his arm, where his 'mark' used to be. 

"Don't, don't do that."

"Do what?" Dean's eyes snap open.

"Don't be-" Vague gesture towards Cas. "You. Not now. Not after you disappeared for three fucking months."

 

Cas starts to say something, his mouth opens, Dean hears the pop, but Dean's not finished yet. "Speaking of which, where the hell were you, Castiel?" 

"I- I don't know."

"What?"

"You heard me. I don't know where I was." Dean is staring at the bed sheets, swirled around his fist, but something in Cas' voice, a hitch maybe, catches his attention, and he looks up briefly. His breath gets stuck in his lungs. Cas is crying. It's so forced that Dean almost doesn't notice, but the light reflects off of Cas' face just so, and there it is. A single drop stuck to his chin, wobbling.

 

"I'll go get you some of those fizzy tablets. I know you're hungover." Dean groans and lays back against his pillows. 

"Ya think?" The bed dips again. Footsteps move to his doorway. 

"By the way," Comes a soft voice. "I'm sorry about Sam.".

 

By the time Dean manages to stand up and get to the kitchen, Cas is already gone.

*************************

**************

*************************

Sam puts a hand on Dean's arm.

 

Well, not Dean.

 

Not anymore.

 

 _New Dean_. That works.

 

"Man, that was great." Sam grins. New Dean tries to remember how to lift his features into a semblance of a smile. Apparently it works, because Sam slaps his brother's back, and laughs, the sound ricocheting off of the smoking trees. Windegos. Four of 'em. Normally, it's one, maybe two, but not this time. Frankly, New Dean had brought the case up with Sam because he'd known it was gonna be dangerous. New Dean is kinda praying- _ha, praying_ \- that Sam is going to have an accident on one of the hunts. So far, nothing.

"Sammy, Imma hit up a bar. You wanna come?" But Sam just stares at the fire engulfing the home the windegos had decided was good enough for a sort of torture dungeon for their victims. New Dean doesn't think that's such a bad thing. Old Dean would have. But Old Dean is gone, dancing the hellfire ramba.

 

Old Castiel is gone too. After the last fight, he'd split, only one month after the hangover incident. Dean was sitting on his bed, cleaning and reassembling his guns, something he'd started doing more and more since- Dean felt the tip of the demon knife pierce his inner thigh. Sam's body was still at the edge of the kitchen, where Dean had laid it three and a half months before.

After taking down Amara, Dean had come back home, high on adrenaline. At first, he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary when he walked in, just the steps and then the war room, dimly lit, red lights pulsing softly.

 

But then his shout of 'Sammy!' had gone unanswered.

 

It had taken Dean exactly fourteen and a half seconds to figure it out. That was how long it took for the lights in the library to fully turn on. In front of him, the bleeding but still breathing body of his little brother was spread eagle on the hardwood, a still-smoking pistol discarded next to him, clenched in the hand of a woman, whose eyes were facing Dean, unseeing. Sam made a strangled, gasping sound when he saw Dean, and he'd tried to sit up.

 

Dean doesn't remember much after that. Knees hitting wood. Bloody drag marks. Screams. Pain. Sam's gaze going blank and unfocused. His last, wheezing breath as Dean finished washing his wound. The strained silence that followed the wait for him to take another one. A shattering bottle.

 

The sound of his ringtone made him jump, Bat Out of Hell echoing through the too quiet bunker. It shocked him out of the memory. His shaking hand moved on autopilot to answer.

"Hello?" His voice was gruff, alcohol and insomnia worn.

"Dean! Hey, sweet cheeks."

"Cas?" Dean stood up.

"Yeah,"

"Are you-" Dean stopped to rub his temple. "Are you drunk?"

"Always, babe."

"Stop calling me that."

"What, Dean?" An icy tone replaced the playfully drunk one. "You gonna yell again? Scream? Kick your feet like a tiny kid and beg me to bring your smartass, annoying, jerk of a baby brother back? Even if I could, I wouldn't."

 

After that, it's just screams.

 

New Dean hears himself laugh. Sam turns his head in an emotion New Dean recognizes as surprise. A smile from New Dean. A dismissive wave.

"Don't worry, Sammy. I'm just happy."

"I've noticed. Mind telling me why?"

That's another thing. Sam still doesn't know that, technically, he's New Sam. And that his Dean is long gone. New Dean probably won't ever tell him. Sam'll figure it out when he's dying for a second time, and this time, 'Dean' is standing over him, holding the handle of the blade buried in his little brother's chest.

 

"We just ganked four windegos, man! Who wouldn't be psyched?"

"Okay, whatever Rambo. You go have fun. I'll head back to the motel, see if I can catch at least four hours of shuteye." Thumbs up. Head shake. Retreating footsteps. Car engine.

New Dean stands for a bit, watching the flames leap up to lick the stars, and he feels another smile creeping onto his face. He can't wait for the day that the knife'll slip between little Sammy's shoulder blades. Can't wait for the warm, pungent, syrupy red to come flowing down his arm. He can't wait to _taste_ it.

*********************

**********

*********************

New Dean walks to the bar. Sam took the Impala, but that doesn't really matter to New Dean anymore. He takes his time, balancing one foot in front of the other in a jerky, staggering walk. A broken half smirk plays across his face, and the passing cars on the back roads light him up ghoulishly.

 

In some back part of his brain, the part that's still _him_ , the Dean from before, the weak, submissive part, warning bells are going off. New Dean can sort of feel Old Dean trying to push through the cracks in his consciousness, but he pushes back just as hard. The neon of the bar sign flickers on and off, _Bucks_ cutting to _ucks_ every so often. _Girls, girls, girls_ shines out into the night in a gaudy, hot pink, flashing. A smile. _Perfect_.

********************

***********

********************

As soon as the door swings shut behind him, New Dean feels it, the strange pull on his arm, as if something's there that he's known since the beginning of time, but New Dean brushes this off, and snakes his way towards the stage, three girls grinding back against poles, asses catching on the metal as they sigh and rake their hands through their hair, gazing down at the hungry, needy men below them. The bass drops, and their hips do the same. One has a collar on, _Chastity_ catching the disco ball lighting and flashing gold towards New Dean.

 

He grins. She's the perfect one. Blonde. Blue eyes. Biting her lips and rubbing herself as she watches him. Rutting back against the pole as money flutters by her stilettoed feet. Huge tits bouncing. His dick twitches.

 

New Dean can almost feel the leather bodice chafing the side of his hand as he helps her, _Chastity_ , off the stage, and pulls her to the side, can almost taste her shock. The bite off the metal door as he forces her into the back alley. The feel of her scream vibrating against the palm of his hand.

 

He almost cums, watching her dance, as he imagines her eyes going wide with fear as his knife catches the streetlight.

 

He would-

 

New Dean only realizes he actually did cum in his pants when a hand reaches around his body and presses against the wet spot on the front of his jeans.

 

"That one's mine." Gruff. Angry. New Dean pinches the inside of his thigh and pushed away any hint off embarrassment by pushing his ass back against this person behind him. He grins at the sharp exhale of breath.

"Not gonna happen, buddy."

"Wanna bet? Dean?"

And spinning wouldn't even cover what he does. Confusion and a shock of arousal. Green meets brown.

 

"Gordon."

"Hey baby boy. Still up for a round like the last time?"

"In your fucking dreams, old man."

But then the song changes. Carry Out switches to GDFR, and all of Dean's attention shifts back to the stage.

 

If New Dean thought Chastity was perfect, this one, _Angel_ , is beyond belief. Corset top flat against her chest, dark blue and leather, collar studded with some type of dark metal. Hips swing to the first three lines. Bass drops. A thrust forwards, and she jerks as though she's rubbing against the thickest ass on planet earth.

 

Leather bikini bottom, eyes clenched shut against pleasure pain, long fingers raking through short black hair. The third time the bass drops, she turns, canting her front against the pole, and the only thing New Dean can manage to think is _that ass should be illegal_.

 

He doesn't even realize he's started moving until he's pressed right against the edge of the stage, and his throbbing cock is wedged against wood. He mentally thanks whoever's out there that he has a fast recovery time. A drink has somehow made its way into his hand, and he fingers the edge of a fifty dollar bill in the other, gazing up at the mystery woman. _Angel_ glitters in rhinestones on her collar, lipstick applied haphazardly.

"Hey sweet cheeks!"

The song ends, and she bends down, opening her eyes.

******************

***********

******************

Whatever New Dean was going to say dies in his mouth.

"Hey, Dean."

Cas' legs swing off the edge of the stage, and he reaches forwards, hooking his fingers into New Dean's collar. He rakes his eyes down Dean's body, and for some reason, Dean feels no need to stop him. Cas pulls Dean forwards, and New Dean bites his tongue.

"I'm off in an hour."

 

New Dean feels himself nodding even before his brain registers the movement.

 

"Good. See you then, cowboy."

********************

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********************

It takes that entire time for New Dean to comprehend what has happened. Castiel has somehow become a stripper, named Angel. _What. The. Fuck._ New Dean sits at the bar, glass after glass passing over his numb lips, the bartender shooting him a worried look when he downs his sixth and immediately asks for another. But something in his eyes, some sort of fire, must deter him from asking a question, which New Dean is thankful for. He's not really feeling killing someone in public. Not when he's got, what, a date? _There goes the seventh_.

Song after song goes by, people come and go, Dean watches Gordon leave with Chastity, and knows she won't be coming back to work tomorrow.

 

Eventually, the strip club/bar empties, and the bartender does lean forwards as the music shuts off.

"Look man, you're gonna have to g-"

"James, it's okay. He's waiting for me." Castiel's hand sneaks over the back of this man's, _James'_ , neck, squeezing gently.

 

He looks like a fucking snow bunny. Uggs, tights, fluffy coat, the whole nine yards.

 

James stutters, turns red, and nods.

"Uh, yeah, okay Cassie. I'll just, um-" He trips his way to the door.

*******************

************

*******************

Cas locks it behind James.

 

All New Dean can think to say is: "Cassie? Really?"

 

"What can I say? I get attached."

 

He walks behind the bar, and New Dean watches, noting the pull of the sheer fabric and the soft sway of Cas' hips as he reaches for the bottle of brandy on the top shelf. Stares at the red lips, pursed in concentration, the extremely light stubble dotting his chin, the little bit of tongue that slips out to wet that cherry-popping mouth.

"So," Nonchalant. Almost calm. New Dean's eyes flick up to Cas' face. "Where have you been for the past year?" A glass hits his fist, resting on the bar. New Dean drops his gaze.

"Around."

"Around." He can hear the barely tempered fury behind the word, and knows, if he had been Old Dean, he would've flinched.

 

"Looks like you've got quite the con going on here."

"You could say that." Tight lipped. Hostile. "You wanna tell me something, Dean? Or keep dancing around it."

He snorts, and downs the glass.

"Not really." If the sharp intake of breath is any indication, New Dean assumes that this surprises New Cas. His thoughts briefly flash to Sam, and how late it must be, but he quickly pushes it aside. "What about you, Cassie?" He spits it.

"Yeah, actually." Cas hoists himself onto the bar, swinging around, holding the bottle of brandy in his hand, Uggs skidding on the wood. "I'm ruined." New Dean cocks his head at the tone of- _what is that, it's not an emotion I- oh yeah- remorse_ , and he looks up just in time to see Cas pop six white pills into his mouth. Old Dean would've said something. Instead, New Dean asks:

 "Can I have some?"

****************

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*****************

Whether hours pass or minutes, New Dean's not really sure. The only thing grounding him is the smoke coming out of his nose in tendrils, Cas' weight heavy on his lap, joint passing between hands.

 

Dean doesn't know how it happens. One second, there's a lull in the conversation, the next, Cas' lips are very close to Dean's neck.

"What happened to you, babe?"

Dean doesn't know why he does it. He just does.

"Life."

 

And his eyes flick to black. He grins.

 

Cas sighs. "I knew it. You fucking moron." Cas' breath is soft and warm and wet on Dean's stubbled neck, but he doesn't move, and Dean fights with all the self control he has not to push their mouths together until Cas begs for breath.

"What about you?" Cas pulls back slightly, staring down at Dean's lips as they move softly.

"Me?" He murmurs.

"Yeah. You. What happened to you, Castiel?"

 

"You."

 

The chair tips.

**************

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**************

Cas is fucking good at his job. He grinds like Dean's paying for it, and Dean just lays back and takes it. Cocks rub, rough and needy, the shattered chair left long behind them. Cas has Dean backed against the wall near the bathroom, Dean's legs wrapped around Cas' waist. Cas bucks up, precum leaking through the tights.

"Commando, babe? In tights? Real-"

"Shut up," He punctuates it by slamming Dean's head against the wood. Dean gasps.

 

"I'm going to make you bleed, Winchester." Cas waits for a response, lips hovering over Dean's neck, the chord of it standing at attention.

 

"Do it."

 

Cas' teeth sink into the fleshy part where Dean's shoulder meets his neck, and he screams, toes curling in his shoes as he pulls Cas even closer with his thighs. Cas undulates, like liquid, hands moving at a speed that shouldn't be humanly possible. Now it's Dean's turn to rutt, zipper on his jeans catching on Cas' tights, ripping them open and Cas hisses as the cold air of the bar hits him, prick swollen and heavy and _oh god_ , it's hot against Dean's leg, even through the denim. He whines, high in his throat, and Cas responds by taking one of Dean's hands and putting it on the zipper of his ski jacket.

"Undo it. I want your hands on my body." Dean does as he's told, fumbling between their bodies to get a good grip, but once he does, he's quick with it. The jacket isn't even halfway off when Dean puts all his weight on Cas and sinks his teeth into Cas' collar bone.

 

Dean can't tell if it's the drugs or the atmosphere or Cas or everything, but he's slightly worried that he'll blow his load before he even gets the chance to-

"I'm going to take your belt off now." And Cas' mouth is back in his own. But this time it's coppery. And hot. And it takes Dean all but one second to realize that his own lips are now smeared with his blood.

 

Any worry about cumming too early fly out the window as his back arches, and he cums for the second time that night. It oozes out of the zipper and stains his jeans even darker and Cas moans, guttural, and Dean doesn't think he's ridden a wave of ecstasy this thick since the first time he came as a demon, jerking himself off in the shower.

"Holy fucking shit, Dean." He's shaking, but his dick is already twitching again. This demon thing is great. It's like he's a fucking teenager again.

"I'm good." He pants. "I'm good. Keep going."

Fingers stub themselves on Dean's belt buckle, and then it slips out of the loops and lands on the floor. Something shifts in Cas' face, and he presses his hand against Dean's chest as he bends his knees to pick up the discarded belt. Dean sits still, back supported by the wall again, legs around Cas' hips, as Cas ties it around Dean's wrists and puts them over his head.

 

They stumble to the edge of the stage, and Cas lays Dean on his back, slipping his head out from under Dean's tied arms. He's floating in some sort of euphoric cloud, and his legs land spread, in a diamond shape, and he watches, through heavily lidded eyes, as Cas backs up, dick curling upwards and out of the rip in the tights, jacket falling to the ground. A bite mark stands out in stark contrast against Cas' snowy skin, and Dean feels his eyes shift to black. Music starts, and it takes Dean a second to realize that it's GDFR, again. Cas smirks when he turns, and saunters over, cock bouncing when he circles his hips.

"I'm going to undress you. And you're not going to fight it." Shoes are first. Cas stares at Dean, trying to figure out how to get his shirt off without undoing his hands, and eventually sighs, giving up, and just tares the plain black shirt in half.

 

Dean's eyes roll back in his head as Cas shimmies off his jeans.

 

"Panties, babe? Really?" Dean just moans, gyrating his hips. The song starts over, and Dean thanks god that Cas had the sense to put his phone on repeat. "You filthy little thing." Cas tisks, blowing cool air onto Dean's steaming cheeks. "You dirty _demon_." And oh, if Cas hadn't taken the base of Dean's cock through the already sopping g-string, he would've cum again.

"Oh say it again. You awful _human_." Cas growls.

"I'm going to put this on. Don't fight."

"How can I- oh, god, Castiel." It squeezes lightly around the base, fits snug and cold and Dean feels a slight bead of precum hover on his slit before it takes its damn time slipping down his now incapacitated cock. "Oh you little-"

 

But whatever he was going to say is cut off by a broken groan as Cas tongues his balls. Dean bucks helplessly, and Cas grins, one hand slowly inching it's way to the underside of Dean. Fingers pull the panties down in the back, over his ass crack. Dean just about breaks the cock ring as Cas' deep throats him and Cas' middle finger goes knuckle deep in Dean's ass. Cas keeps it up for about three minutes, or however long it takes for the song to repeat one more time. However long it takes for Dean to literally be crying and squirming and gasping. "Just- please-please-oh-fu-Jesus Mary and Joseph-holy fuc-"

 

But Cas backs off, last minute, pulling three fingers from Dean's ass as he does so. Cas lays next to Dean, and lazily pulls his own dick while watching Dean practically salivate. A tear works its way down Dean's chin, and Cas grins.

"You're so pretty when you cry. Especially with the black eyes."

 

Cas works himself over a few more times, biting his lips, before he beckons to Dean. Dean manages to get onto his knees, shaking, dick so painfully swollen that he's not sure it's safe. He crawls towards Cas, then stands, swaying. Cas puts his hand behind his head, nodding towards his dick. "Ride it, cowboy."

And damn, does he ever.

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**********

***************

There's slapping. Euphoria. Screams. Blood. Pain. But Dean's legs work so fast that they go numb. He straddles Cas, lines up, and sinks. He does it again. And again. And again. And when Cas says: "Bite my nipples," Dean obliges. Dean ruts himself against the hard plains of Cas' lower stomach, and Cas pinches the softer part of Dean's. It feels so damn good, rough and hot and dirty and frantic, that Dean thinks if Cas takes off the ring, he'll empty his entire body of any sperm he has left. Cas kneads Dean's ass, slaps it, curls up to bite Dean's neck again and again.

"I'm going to flip us."

"Fine." He gasps, and then he's on his back.

 

"You like that, cowboy?" Cas groans into Dean's ear, arms flexing as he clenches Dean's hair and thrusts, pelvis grinding into Dean's hard and fast.

"Yeah," Breathy groan. "Yeah, mmmmmm, filthy _human_." Cas rolls his hips against Dean's in quick succession, ass rippling, and Dean fights against the belt, trying to break through the leather.

 

He feels it strain, and then there's a pop, and his hands are free. One falls to the cock ring, wedged between their bodies, and Dean fumbles it off. The wave of pleasure that hits him is so intense that he's momentarily gone, white noise filling his head, drool slipping down his chin. But then it passes, and he fists both his hands in the loose skin on Cas' ass, pulling him in a tightly as possible. Cas grinds, and hoists Dean up, so that he's sitting on Cas.

"Bounce."

 

So Dean does. And Cas stands. So Dean ruts instead, kissing against Cas' neck in frantic little bursts. They make their way to the bar, and Cas lays on it. Dean bounces again. Cas flips them. Drives home.

 

Dean knows Cas is about to cum as soon as he starts shaking. Dean has already been fighting it, has no idea how he's lasted this long without the cock ring on, but he knows he's been clenching and unclenching, hard, for a while. Cas' thrusts speed up, the grunts of 'ah, oh Jesus, fuck' get louder, the wet slap of heated skin on skin louder than the blaring music, and then Dean loses it.

 

He screams. Clenches as hard as he can. Bucks back on Cas' cock, locks him in, and just milks himself out, bouncing somehow, despite him being on his back. Cum hits his chin, and when Cas wraps his hand around the head and tugs, it hits Dean's ear.

Cas lasts three more hard, fast, panicked thrusts, still pumping Dean, before he arches away from Dean, and he watches in a haze as Cas pulls out and jerks himself off, cum splattering Dean's chest and Cas'. It lasts for thirty seconds or more. But once it ends, and Dean is almost asleep, Cas' spine fails, and he falls forwards, arms across Dean's chest, gasping.

 

"I love you." Cas groans into Dean's collarbone.

 

"I know."

****************

**********

****************

The first thing Dean's aware of it that Cas is no longer next to him. The second thing is that he's sitting up.

 

Then handcuffs clasp behind his back. His eyes fly open. Cas is in front of him, dressed in normal attire, straddling a bar stool, and it takes Dean a bleary minute to realize that he's still naked.

"What the fuck, man!" He tries to break them, but finds that he can't. "Demon handcuffs?"

"Sam had figured that you'd done something like this. Something stupid. So I agreed to help him." Dean glares. "We're going to fix you." He rolls his eyes. Cas smirks and stands up. "And don't worry. The walls will be sound proof, and you'll be completely incapacitated." He runs a hand under Dean's exposed balls. Dean groans. Cas grins, leaning in. "And we've got maybe ten minutes before Sam gets here. Up for a quickie?"

 


End file.
